Authors: K. M. Grant
The other pilgrims, very uncomfortable, began to mount their horses. The very mention of treason silenced them. Despite their liking for the Master and their dislike of the summoner, this was dangerous territory. Not even Dame Alison made any remark. Walter moved forward a little. I knew he wanted to signal that he didn’t have the ring, but any movement might alert Master Summoner.
I struggled to think. One thing was obvious: the summoner must abandon his pursuit of Luke. More than that, he must forget about Luke. It must be made abundantly obvious that Luke was of no interest to him.
The mind really is a curious thing. It sometimes makes decisions that take you quite unaware. I, for example, was quite unaware that my hand was shooting down my front, my fingers scrabbling. When I had hold of Dobs’s hair, I ran to Walter and made my three-skip mounting bounce. He was alert and ready and without hesitation pitched me onto Dulcie and catapulted himself onto Arondel. Then I held up the ring. I was quite aware now. “Let all of you see this!” I shouted. “I’ve got the ring that Master Summoner’s so anxious about. I repeat: it’s me who has the king’s ring. Me, do you hear? I’ve got it. Master Summoner, if you want it, come and get it.”
The summoner gave a roar. “Master Chaucer gave it to you!”
“He didn’t!” I yelled back. “Look at his face!”
The Master’s face was, indeed, a picture. Nobody could have faked such amazement—well, horror really—but it seemed like amazement to those who didn’t know his guilty secret.
“Now,” I cried, “forget Master Chaucer and forget Luke. You’ve no proof against them. None whatever.”
The summoner recovered himself and laughed.
“You think you can just say that and be believed?” He began to move toward me at the same moment as I moved toward him. I don’t think he knew what was coming until the second before it actually happened. Only when I was right on him, Luke’s knife and surprise on my side, did his hands fly to his waist. By then it was too late. I’d already slit his leather belt, seized the pouch, and, for good measure, slit his tunic so that the audience could appreciate the full hairy sag of his stomach. The red of his spots purpled and his eyes bulged. One hand shot up, the other he slapped over his stomach. “Give that pouch back. Give it back at once or I’ll have you for a common thief.”
I dangled the pouch above his head. “A common thief? That cap fits you better.” I tossed the pouch to Walter. He opened it, exclaimed loudly, and threw each item back to its rightful owner: the rattle, the crucifix, Sir Knight’s book, Dame Alison’s wedding rings—it was quite a hoard. Finally, Walter drew out his own jeweled dagger and Master Host’s horn spoon. It was the last that caused the greatest gasp. “How—how—how
ridiculous
!” Dame Alison said, outraged.
The summoner was beyond caring about Dame Alison’s outrage. He lunged at me and Walter just as I dug my heels into Dulcie, and Walter, stuffing his dagger and the horn spoon back into the pouch, dug his spurs into Arondel. Scattering our fellow pilgrims,
we galloped out of the yard, and as we passed the blue armor wagon, in a lovely gesture, Walter leaned down and scooped up Poppet. We could hear the summoner yelling for his horse and then spewing out a stream of invective when he found it to be as yet unsaddled. I caught a fleeting glimpse of Master Chaucer’s face as I sped away. Relief? Bemusement? Anger that I’d upset his plans? I’d no idea. I also heard Sir Knight roaring for his son to return to him at once. It was odd, hearing him raise his voice. Walter blinked, but though I believe it was the first time he’d ever disobeyed his father, he didn’t hesitate, and in moments we were in the street, barging past new arrivals at the inn. “Don’t go in there!” some devilment made me yell. “There’s flies in the soup and piss in the porridge!” Their faces! I laughed, though it wasn’t a nice sound.
The traffic slowed our mad dash. Dodging knots of flagellants and squeezing past wagonloads of the infirm, Walter and I almost lost sight of each other. At the city’s west gate, the throng trying to enter was so dense that we were brought to a complete halt. Several times, Dulcie and Arondel were almost bodily lifted and forced back the way we had just come. We did get through in the end, though, and at once pushed the horses into a brisk canter. By this time, the adrenaline had stopped pumping and I was already whithering inside. Had I made Luke any safer, or Master Chaucer? Certainly,
my father would suffer. But there was no going back. “Which direction?” I was not even tempted to smile at Walter.
“The king’s in the north,” Walter said, not even tempted to smile back.
“How do you know?”
“Squires’ gossip at the tournament. We’ll have to hurry, though. You made the summoner a laughing stock. He’ll never forgive that.”
“Oh God! What have I done?” I kicked Dulcie hard and her stride lengthened. “Never mind the king, I’ve got to get to Southwark.” I turned south.
Walter caught up with me. “Listen to me, Belle. You can’t protect your father after what you’ve just done. Only the king can do that, and only if his writ still runs. For your father’s sake, and Master Chaucer’s, we must get to the king before the commission removes yet more of his powers. Don’t you see?”
“I see only that I’m a disaster. I’ve ruined my father’s legs, I didn’t pray properly for him, and now I’m going to see him executed!” I couldn’t stop myself. The hanging boy was on my back in all his creaking horror. I made Dulcie gallop faster.
Arondel matched Dulcie, stride for stride. “Listen to me, Belle,” Walter urged, edging Arondel slightly in front. “The summoner can arrest your father but he can’t arrange a hanging without a trial, and for a trial he’ll have
to concoct a better charge than gossip. That will take a little time. If we can find the king, and, as I say, if he still has authority in London, your father will be safe.”
“If—if!” I cried wildly. “Too many ifs!”
“Your father’s a good man. You’ve been on pilgrimage. St. Thomas will help him.”
“Oh, Walter! Do you really believe that?”
Walter swallowed very hard. “Luke would.”
I bent my head. He was right. It was the only thing to cling to. I shivered closer into my saddle. “Northward, then,” I said, “and let’s hope the squires were right.”
We traveled very fast, the horses glad to do so. Ten miles on, Walter insisted on buying pies and loaves from a roadside vendor. He bought three of each, which made me want to hug him, and shoved them into the summoner’s pouch. “Supper,” he said. We stuck to the main roads because they were the quickest and it was on these that we’d be most likely to hear news of the king. We had to hope that we could simply outrun the summoner if he gave chase, though a more subtle pursuit was more his style. However, even we couldn’t gallop in the dark, so when night fell we tethered the horses at the back of an abandoned shelter and went inside. The floor was filthy and Walter laid out his cloak for me to sit on. I unpacked the food. Walter took out the spoon and the dagger. The latter he wiped carefully before sticking it back in his belt.
The former, he contemplated. “What a strange man the summoner is,” he said. “I can understand stealing my dagger or Dame Alison’s rings. Those things are worth something. But this spoon? Or the child’s rattle? Or the wooden dog?”
“I pumice my legs and count to three,” I said. “There’s no accounting for peculiarities.”
“You
used
to pumice your legs, Belle.”
I gave him a long look. We chewed in silence, both avoiding the subject of Luke. It was too painful. When I couldn’t swallow any more, I turned my attention back to the pouch. “There’s something else in here,” I said.
“Oh?”
I pulled out a little soft-backed book.
“Ah,” Walter said, also giving up trying to eat. “Our summoner’s poetry book, perhaps? Or a book of songs? Remember him singing on the very first day of our journey? Not the songliest of songs, but a song nonetheless.”
I did give a half smile now, though it would have looked more like a grimace to an onlooker. The book, barely the size of my palm, was horribly sticky. I made a face. “It smells,” I said. I opened it. “It’s too dark. I can’t see what’s in it.”
“We’ll have to wait until morning.” Walter took the book and put it on a jutting stone shelf. “Lie down now, Belle, and get some sleep.” He found some leaves to shove under the cloak for a mattress, salved my legs, wrapped
me up with Poppet, and then settled himself on the other side of the shelter. “Walter,” I said, after a while.
“Yes?”
“It’s cold. We can share the cloak.”
“I don’t think that would be very seemly.”
“There’s nobody here, and, well, anyway …” I couldn’t go on because I didn’t know what words to use.
“There’s no danger to your virtue?” His voice was low in the dark.
“Anyway, you’re the squireliest of squires,” I said. There was silence. “Please. I can’t sleep knowing you’re so uncomfortable. Sharing the cloak would be the chivalrous thing to do.”
I heard him move, and then he was next to me, knowing just how to pillow my head on his arm, just how to nestle Poppet between us and just how to position himself so that I got the best of the cloak. It was the first time I’d ever slept so close to a man, and with Walter it was so easy, so comforting, and so beautifully pure that despite everything, I lay happy for a moment in the joy of it.
When I woke, light was creeping in and I was alone. I could see the horses already saddled. Walter was sitting bolt upright by the far wall, the summoner’s book open between his hands.
I began to pull leaves from my hair and shake out the cloak. “So, what is it? Songs or poems?”
He looked up. “Neither.”
“Oh?” I took the cloak to him.
He snapped the book shut and threw it down. “You mustn’t read it.”
I was taken aback. “Why not?”
“It’s a tally book,” he said, his face full of disgust, anger, and all manner of inexpressible feelings.
“He’s a summoner,” I countered, “so he would have a tally book to note down the people he’s summoning to the bishop and make a list of their sins.” I bent down.
“Don’t! There are things in there nobody should see.” He was very distressed.
“I’m not a child, Walter. If Archdeacon Dunmow can read it and survive, I expect I can manage.”
“I don’t think the archdeacon’s going to read it.”
“Why ever not?”
Walter’s hands shook. “He’s in it.”
“He’s in the summoner’s tally book? I don’t understand.”
“He and almost every other powerful churchman, in London and beyond. And their sins!” He stood. “It’s a list of perversions I’d never dreamed of.” I stared at the book. Walter stood above me. “There’s sins,” he said, “and next to them there’s figures. Money. The bigger the sin, the larger the amount.”
Silence followed. I broke it. “Little jars of poison,” I said slowly.
“What?”
“Just something I said to the Master.” I shook
myself. “What you’re telling me is that it’s a blackmail book, not a tally book: that the summoner, or his spies, root out people’s worst secrets then charge for keeping quiet.” The sun sent its first rays across the floor and illuminated the greasy fingermarks on the book’s cover. It had evidently been pored over many times, usually during a meal, for the spine was crusted with crumbs. I touched it gingerly with my toe.
“We must destroy it,” Walter said, and moved to pick it up.
“No,” I said at once. “We’ll keep it.
It’s a weapon.” Walter thought for a moment. “Yes,” he said tightly, “I suppose it is.” He stuffed the book back into the pouch and attached the pouch to Arondel’s saddle. He couldn’t bear to attach it to himself. Before we mounted, he went to the roadside ditch and scrubbed his hands. Only when we were some way along the road did I realize that I hadn’t done my triple bounce. I thought of getting off, but there wasn’t time. Instead, I reassured myself by seeing three silver birches in the corner of a faraway field. In truth there were lots of silver birches, so it was actually no reassurance at all.
He was discreet in his authority,
Though in some things he was indeed to blame …
Even going as fast as we could, it took us more than a week to find the king. His whereabouts were not secret but he didn’t stay still for long, so we were always having to alter our direction. Some days I panicked, wondering what was happening elsewhere. Would the summoner have already arrested my father? Would Master Chaucer be cursing me?
After that first day, Luke did creep into the conversation: neither of us could keep him out. Walter was reticent to start with, but then, just the way it is with somebody you love, he couldn’t help himself. He told me where he’d first set eyes on him, at least a month before I had, at prayers at Westminster. It was there that the pilgrimage had first been planned and the meeting at the Tabard arranged. “I noticed him at once,” Walter said, “because he was fighting with a man who’d insulted the Master. It must’ve been just after the Master had given him his job. I went to separate them. We weren’t introduced. Luke probably forgot he ever saw me. But I didn’t forget him. There was something about—”